


A Very Field Work Thanksgiving

by Cuda (Scylla)



Series: Field Work [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Veterinarians, Established Castiel/Sam Winchester, Established Dorothy Baum/Charlie Bradbury, F/F, M/M, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12809895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: A special Thanksgiving gift for the readers of Field Work... tuck in and enjoy! It's Sam and Castiel's first Thanksgiving, and Castiel's expecting a nervewracking dinner guest. Will things go smoothly? Will the turkey defrost in time? Will there be enough potatoes for Dean Winchester?





	A Very Field Work Thanksgiving

Castiel's half sister Anna was T-minus six hours from their very first Thanksgiving dinner, and the turkey was an ice cold brick on the counter. Charlie, Dorothy and Castiel stared mournfully at the frozen white hulk, plastic wrapped and netted like a deli salami.

"Okay so the good news is six puppies are alive today," Charlie said, bright and smug.

"Yes, you're a certifiable hero," Castiel replied, "we're aware."

"Emphasis on 'certifiable,'" Dorothy chimed in. Charlie shot her a dirty look, which she ignored. "Look, we'll Google it. Turkey fuckups are as classic as Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. There are legendary film subplots devoted to this. There's probably a hotline. _1-800-TURKEYFUCKUPS_."

"That's too many digits," Charlie snorted, " _TurkeyFuckups.com_ is probably a Thanksgiving fail blog."

"Or porn," Castiel suggested. The shocked stares he received were almost enough to break his panic. "It has 'fuck' in the name," he added. The kitchen bubbled with nervous giggles from all sides.

Charlie passed a hand over her face in an actor's 'end scene' gesture. "Okay. Focus. The turkey was my responsibility, so I'll--"

"Got it," Dorothy reported, who apparently could laugh and Google at the same time. she offered her phone, where the screen asked 'So Your Turkey Isn't Thawed... Now What?' in big, bold type. "Looks like we adjust the cooking time. Um, we can't brine the turkey or whatever - was that something we were going to do?"

Charlie was aghast. "You can cook a frozen turkey?"

"Apparently."

"We've been lied to," Castiel said, voice droll, "all our lives."

His phone beeped in the pocket of his pajamas. Castiel opened his messages to a photo of Sam. Sam in a tailored suit jacket, smiling up at Castiel like the breadth of his shoulders and the open collar of his shirt weren't engineered to stop a man's heart.

> _This okay? I can't wait to see your sister again!_

Castiel wondered if it was too late to fake a stroke.

A split second later, another message followed the first:

> _It's going to be okay, Cas. Breathe._

"Turkey in the oven, now," Charlie commanded, retrieving the roaster from beneath the kitchen counter with a deafening clatter, "Dot?"

"Present!"

"You're on K.P. We need potatoes for like, fifteen people."

"Aye-aye." Dorothy saluted with a heel click. She dropped a kiss on Charlie's shoulder on the way to the utensil drawer.

"There's only six of us," Castiel protested, finding Sam's advice easier in abstract than practice.

Charlie turned and shoved a can of cherries into Castiel's hands. "Six, including Dean Winchester. Like I said, potatoes for fifteen. How do you feel about baking a pie?"

Her no-nonsense briskness was comforting. Of the two of them, Castiel thought himself less inclined to panic. Today's exception could be considered relevant, however. "Frozen crust?" Castiel asked.

Charlie grinned. "Mom's secret weapon? You bet!"

Her smile was so much their mother's. The grin embraced Castiel. The choppy seas of his stomach calmed.

"I can do pie," he said.

 

* * *

 

Anna called to double check her directions, several hours later, while Dean Winchester looked on with horror and amusement about equally mixed.

"How did you get the giblets out?" Dean asked. The call came in near the center of Castiel's turkey story, apparently leaving enough time for him to process the early highlights in full.

"Giblets?" Castiel asked, blank.

Dean explained on the way to the kitchen.

They had not.

"We got this," Dean said, bending over the browning carcass, "I need tongs. Have you got two meat forks?"

"That's a thing?"

In the end, they shoveled a cutting board beneath the turkey's ass, hefting it up at an angle like a car on a jack. Dean fished for the paper bag of giblets with his tongs. "Next time, call me first," Dean said, "these things aren't tough but, uh, not exactly user-friendly. A ha!" The bag came free, wet and ugly, dangling from Dean's tongs.

"You've roasted a turkey," Castiel said. Because it had to be asked. The image of Dean bending over a turkey was incongruous with the man who'd shared a metric ton of Chinese takeout with him at college.

Dean nodded, releasing the turkey from the cutting board. It plopped back into Charlie's blend of onion soup mix and chicken stock. "Sam and me had a lot of holidays alone. Pizza for Thanksgiving gets old. You guys need more liquid in here. Did you baste this?"

"I don't eat meat," Castiel said.

They stared at one another.

"Okay," Dean sighed, "do you have a baster? Wait, never mind. Show me your utensil drawer."

"Finally," Castiel said, leading the way, "words I understand."

 

* * *

 

Sam returned from the truck with board games in one bag and six bottles of white wine in another. His suit jacket was folded over one arm in the foyer. He looked like a Burberry ad. A Burberry ad with a private, Castiel-only smile. "Happy Thanksgiving, Cas," he said, "how are you?" The warmth in his voice was a benediction.

"Panicking," Castiel replied. Sam moved into his orbit, big and steady and cheerful, making an offering of himself with outstretched arms. Castiel leaned into him with the first slow breath of the day. The bags rustled as Sam wrapped him up in a hands-free hug.

"How long before Anna gets here?" Sam asked.

"Half an hour," Castiel replied, nerves clipping even the soft consonants short.

Sam noticed. "It'll be fine."

"You keep saying that. Eventually I'll believe you."

"Okay," Sam huffed. His chest pushed against Castiel's forehead. "Cas. Look. She had other people to spend today with, but she's coming to see you. Even if today's a bust, you guys are together on Thanksgiving. That's a big deal."

Doubts still too strong to give voice, Castiel closed his eyes and leaned a little harder. He felt the quiver of Sam's chuckle, and a light kiss on the top of his head. "I'll make you a deal. If dinner goes south, I'll make a diversion so you can escape."

Castiel's head popped up. "A diversion," he echoed, suspicious.

"Yeah. I'll fake food poisoning. You can take me to the ER. We'll go get Starbucks."

"Charlie will think it's her fault."

"Okay. A beer run."

"You're holding six bottles of wine, Sam. Which you should put down, at some point."

"Oh, I would," Sam said lightly, but the smile in his tone made Castiel look up. The open heat and promise in his partner's expression sent a shock of pleasure straight through his cold, panicked core. "but then I'd have my hands free, and you look really good."

"That could be bad," Castiel murmured.

"That could be very bad," Sam agreed, "we probably wouldn't make it upstairs."

"People would talk."

"Possibly press charges."

"'Lascivious Acts' is a serious offense."

"I'd have to iron my shirt again."

In the moment, Anna's imminent arrival seemed very far away. "If you come upstairs and then put the bags down, Sam," Castiel said, letting a fraction of the building heat drip into his voice, "I can personally guarantee your shirt won't have time to wrinkle."

And if the wine went warm in the meantime, Castiel certainly kept his promise.

 

* * *

 

The table was set, aglow with a red tablecloth and candles. Dinner was in a holding pattern, warm in the oven for Anna's arrival. Giving up on a halfhearted game of Scrabble, everyone perched on the couch around Charlie's television, mocking _A Christmas Story_ with wine in hand. The doorbell chimed across the house. Castiel - three glasses deep into the chardonnay, leaning against Sam's shoulder on the couch and still savoring post-climax lassitude - couldn't find two spare brain cells to devote to panic. He got up, towing a fourth glass of chardonnay and Sam to the door - safety in numbers, and all that.

He unlatched the door and swung it open, and stared.

"Hello, Castiel," Anna said, frowning with nerves. She cradled a bottle of Cabernet, and clutched the hand of a stranger on the threshold. A stranger with honey eyes and a broad, trickster's smile. He held out his hand to Castiel.

"Hiya, bro," the stranger said, "nice to meet the other black sheep of the family."


End file.
